


Porcelain

by Verdigris (Inspirent)



Series: Porcelain and Parchment [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bro is actually terrible in this, Buckle up kiddoes, Child Abuse, Dissociation, F/M, FTM Dave, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Trans Dave Strider, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8639956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspirent/pseuds/Verdigris
Summary: His hands are big, damp with sweat and calloused from years of gripping the hilt of a sword, and it's with the same precision of his strikes that he slips his smooth fingers under your shirt.You let him.You feel repulsive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, warning before you read, this is pretty intense emotion-wise, so if you're prone to being triggered by anything to do with noncon, child abuse, or self harm, I suggest you make sure that you can handle the material within this fic at the current moment. Please understand that I see nonconsensual sex as a very serious issue, and the intent behind this piece was not to do a one-off PWP, and this work is definitely not something fetishizing or sexualizing the act of rape. I in no way condone rape or dubiously consensual sex. I have tried to portray the events mentioned within with as much seriousness and accuracy as I can, though feel free to point out any inaccuracies, because as unintentional as they may be, I want to reduce the amount of them within my writing. This fic includes major mentions of injury as well, worries about the repercussions of unprotected sex, and Dave vomits at one point. Just a forewarning to those of you that are bothered by that.

Your back aches. His elbow is digging into your shoulder blade, and your back aches.

Your arm stings. There's a long, curved gash tearing through your pale skin, and your arm

stings.

His breath is accompanied by the bitter stench of alchohol. It floods your senses, acrid, caustic, festering. 

Your cheek is cold, pressed against the smooth surface of your bedroom wall. You hate it when he comes in here, does this in here. It makes you feel nauseated, a sour, tense feeling rising in your throat and settling beneath your jaw. 

Your blood is starting to drip onto the floor, and you hope that he'll notice, that he'll stop, at least long enough to let you bandage the wound.

Broken beer bottles cut deep.

You can smell the musky scent of sweat and piss as he leans in, towering over your small frame, and you close your eyes, trying to pretend that the heat pressing against your back isn't there. 

"It's been a few weeks, huh kid?" He sounds calm. He sounds calm, and so you relax a bit. His earlier outburst won't be carried into this if you're careful about it. Your arm still hurts, but you ignore it just enough to nod. 

It has been a while. You hope he'll go easy on you tonight. Your prayer is answered by the way he gently moves his hands, the pressure on your upper back being replaced with a more consistent weight. Your palms are pressed flat against the wall. You know better than to move your hands, to attempt to push his away from their path over your sides. 

His hands are big, damp with sweat and calloused from years of gripping the hilt of a sword, and it's with the same precision of his strikes that he slips his smooth fingers under your shirt. 

You let him. 

You feel repulsive.

His fingers catch the edge of rough fabric, and he runs the digits along the circumference, toying with the seam and making your nerves flare up. He only wants you to react, though, so you keep your expression blank, eyes blinking open again to look back at him. 

He doesn't look amused in the slightest that you're not giving into what he wants, but he doesn't look particularly furious either. Good. This is a good balance. His fingertips barely brush the very bottom of your breasts before he withdraws his hands, and you are grateful.

"Strip." The command is simple, one that you can follow easily. His weight lifts from your back and you let yourself breathe, backing away from the wall a step. Your shirt leaves your body first, followed by your skinnies, the fabric pulling down your legs and sitting stiffly on the floor when you discard it. Your boxers are a bit more of an obstacle, and you immediately feel unsafe as they drop to the ground as well. You step out of them, looking up hopefully.

Sometimes this is enough. You won't have to take your binder off. Please, please, sometimes leaving it on is okay, it's enough.

Not tonight.

"All of it." You make an effort to look pitiful. He only grows weary of your silent complaints. 

"Dave." The way he growls your name makes you eager to comply. You really, really don't wish to earn his ire. You struggle out of the tight fabric, pulling the garment over your head. He hums in an almost appreciative manner, and your jaw tightens as you fold it somewhat neatly and toss it gently onto your swivel chair.

"C'mere." He says, planting his ass on your mattress and spreading his legs. Fuck. You hate sucking him off, hate everything about the way he forces himself down your throat and makes you gag on his bitter spunk. 

You can't say no, though.

You've tried.

You gently reach up to thumb at a scar just underneath your left eye, hidden by your large shades. Bro clears his throat, and you make your way over, kneeling in between his spread legs. You reach up to begin undoing his jeans (the sooner this is over, the better), but he signals you to stop and your movement stutters to an abrupt halt.

"Use your mouth." You give him an incredulous look. He expects you to just figure out how to undo his jeans with only your teeth? 

"Bro, how do you exp-"

"Thirty seconds." 

He starts counting down.

You waste no time finishing your sentence, dipping your head forwards and gripping at the top of his fly with your teeth. You try to ease the metal button through the small slit in the fabric, finding it harder than you'd expected. Your pulse is racing by the time he drones out a monotone: "Ten."

You give up when he reaches five, tucking your face into the crease between his hip and thigh. You flinch as a hand lands on your head, unable to even form an apology as his fingers tangle in your hair and he guides you up to face him. You can't meet his gaze, and you know he can tell from the way his lips are downturned just a fraction. A microexpression, but one that causes fear to grip at your chest. 

"Jesus, kid, pull yourself together. You ain't six any more, I'm not gonna tolerate this failure bullshit. 'Specially not the giving up part. Just fuckin'... use your hands, since you obviously can't handle anything more challenging." You move your hands up again as he releases his grip, but leaves his palm resting against your head. You're forcing him to baby you, god, you're pathetic.

You don't dare to fumble with unbuttoning and unzipping his pants this time, and you undo the button on his boxers as well. He's already half hard, though you don't understand how any sick fuck could get off to his little brother like this. You don't have to pause again, you know what he's expecting you to do.

His length feels heavy and warm in your hand as you stroke him to full hardness. You wipe at any precum gathering with your thumb, wanting to keep it out of your mouth as much as possible. His diet is awful, so his jizz tastes awful. You really don't appreciate it. You know he doesn't care.

He sighs, pets your hair as you wrap your lips around him and suck. "That's it, good boy, just like that." You can't help but feel comforted by the praise, if only because he called you a boy. You're aware, in some part of your mind, that it's just a manipulation tactic, but you so desperately want to believe that he loves you, that he accepts you that you push the doubt away.

You nearly gag when you attempt to swallow all of him down, and you bob back a bit, pulling off of him and clearing your throat. The next time you slide down his length, he holds you there, and you breathe shallowly through your nose, trying to keep every breath even and slow. You swallow around him, and he groans. 

He lets you bob up and down on his cock for a bit more, his calloused thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones as you take him down to the base. You do gag this time, your throat forcing him out and away from your mouth. You're pulling away again to cough, and he shakes his head. You're not doing a good job tonight at all, you can tell he's disappointed. Somehow that's worse than him being angry or upset. 

You can't help but think that he holds you in little regard. That you're not a person to him, just some thing that's only ever present when he needs to get his frustrations out. That's how you feel, at least. He's never told you anything to make you believe that you're wrong about that. He hardly ever tells you anything nowadays, and when he does, you're ashamed that you're not just grateful to have his attention. 

"Come here, kiddo, hands and knees." He orders, patting the spot beside him on your bed. You comply with the command, your legs feeling sore already from kneeling on the hard floor.

You try not to think about the way you must appear, naked and spread out for your _brother;_ this is fucked up, you're beyond fucked up for letting him do this. You could do so many things to stop it, but you don't. And somewhere in your sick fucking head, you think you don't want it to stop. You _must_ not want it to stop, if you're letting him use you like this.

His hands are on your sides, brushing over your hips, curving in their path to grope at your chest. Even though his skin is dry, calloused, his touch still feels inexplicably slimy, horribly wrong, and you think there's something wrong with you, why don't you just push him off, find some way to end this before it gets too bad? 

It doesn't hurt all that much when his fingers push into you, making your back arch in discomfort. It doesn't hurt if you relax, though, even if you're not wet at all. Part of you revels in the achievement of not being turned on, but another part of you knows that it'll be worse if you aren't. He probably doesn't give a shit, in all honesty, usually he doesn't care about how you feel. You sort of prefer it that way, actually. It always feels wrong when he's touching you in a way that's meant to actually get you off, it's better when he leaves you alone after he finishes. 

His fingers drag downwards, crooking in a way that makes you hiss out a sharp breath. You're beyond glad that he can't really see your face as you bite your lip, realizing that yeah, tonight's not really your night, is it? He's definitely looking for your G-spot, even though his search is next to useless since you're not aroused. He gives up after a while, simply moving his digits in and out of you. You can feel just how little this is doing for you, the drag of his fingers roughly pulling along the barely damp walls of your cunt. 

He pulls his fingers away and shucks his pants to his ankles all-too quickly, and you're really not ready, oh _shit_ you're so far from ready, and you know this is going to hurt like hell, but you can't 

do

anything about it.

"Hey, kiddo, just relax." He murmurs, and you feel your stomach churn. Just relax? How the hell can you relax when you're anticipating the pain that comes along with everything he's planning on doing? Your hips buck involuntarily when he moves his hand back to your cunt, rubs at your clit with his thumb, pressing down in quick, rough little circles. He hums lowly, shifting over you and gripping your hips, the fingers of his right hand slightly sticky with your shame. 

He lines himself up, and you grit your teeth, placing your weight on your uninjured arm and grimacing. You feel the head of his cock bump up against you, and you freeze for a moment. He's not... he doesn't have...

"Bro, h-uh. Hold up. Condom." You say shakily, surprised at how much of your outward composure you're able to maintain. He breathes out a heavy sigh, grunting in a half-assed response. "Fuck it, they're all the way in my room. You'll be fine, kid." He pats your side, and you feel like you're going to vomit.

"Bro, you can't just..." You trail off, catching the hint from the way his grip tightens on your hips, blunt fingernails digging into your pale skin. You feel like porcelain under his fingertips, fearful that if you upset him too much, he'll leave cracks in your surface. He's already left a few chinks in your pride, you're well aware that you're not equipped to handle much more abuse. "You'll be _fine_." He reassures you, though his words have a dangerous bite to them. You know you should stay quiet, not complain and whine like a girl, but Jesus, you can't just let your brother fuck you without a condom, holy shit.

"Bro, seriously. We could both end up in deep shit if you don't-" Your sentence remains unfinished, choked off into a shuddering gasp as he pushes into you. You feel like you're close to falling apart, like you'll shatter in his grip, and your whine of pain refuses to be stifled. His hips meet your ass, and you're trying desperately to pull air into your lungs but its not working you're panicking and you never panicked you hadn't panicked since you were nine even about this and you dont know what to do.

Your body very obviously doesn't want him there, aching and stinging with how much he's stretching you. He wasn't usually like this, he never skipped protection when he did this. You can feel yourself beginning to zone out in an attempt to block out the anxiety ripping your ribcage open like a caged animal. You're vaguely aware of your focus going, which you fully support, yet the little bites of pain hold you back, just enough to keep you grounded. The sheets underneath your face are disgustingly damp and you're not sure when exactly you started crying, but you can't stop. 

Why can't you stop?

Why won't he stop?

Stop.

"Stop!" The word creaks out of your mouth, a choked sob that barely sounds like a word at all. He halts, and for a moment, you're relieved, until you realize the gravity of the mistake you just made. You aren't the one calling the shots here, you don't get a say in what your brother does. You let out another sob, though you attempt to muffle the noise into your mattress. He's still, stock still, and you're growing more terrified by the moment. You nearly flinch when he does move, tremoring at the feeling of his hands sliding down your thighs. He doesn't say anything, simply lets his hands press into your pale skin, rough callouses smoothing over the broken patches of old scars and forming scabs alike. It's an almost tender touch, gentle against your sensitive skin, and you're almost given reason to relax. Almost.

Your breath escapes you in a rush, a choked out cry leaving your lips as pain blossoms outwards from your thighs. There's a moment of shock before you realize that he's digging his fingernails into the already painful scabs marring your legs, dragging harshly upwards and pulling the cuts back open, and you're too taken aback to scream, it feels like your pulse is racing yet completely still and you might pass out because you've already bled enough tonight as it is but he's starting to move again, and everything is fuzzy around the edges everything is fading and you're crying but there's no sound and the world speeds up and slows down simultaneously and you're

falling  
apart.

He's ripping you, tearing you to bits, your once-vitrified skin shredding like paper. You feel your consciousness slip willingly, your body a shell left to kneel and endure. His nails carve new shapes into your skin, angry vertical marks that will definitely bruise, you'll have to watch what you wear for the next while. Some part of you is concerned that you've had to cut your consciousness away from your being, concerned that your pain is dulled so much, and you think you might be in shock.

When he comes inside you, hips grating against yours, a grunt leaving his mouth, you know that you should be feeling something. You're not really sure what exactly that feeling is, but you know that it should be _there_. You know that you should be concerned that it isn't, but you can't help but do much more than observe, noticing rather than _being_. The purpose, the value, the essence of _being_ seems to have slipped away from you, leisurely, fleeting. As leisurely as your brother slides out of your bed. Your existence is of as little importance as the precise way he buckles his belt, the exact position your shades land in as he kicks them carelessley across the floor. 

He's gone, and you're left alone. You can't bring yourself to care either way, but you do note idly that the feeling has started to return to your body, and you're able to move into an upright position, unable to ignore the feeling of cum dripping out of you. Your legs are beyond mangled, not that they weren't before, but now even more so, and you're almost certain that you've been in enough pain to be in shock right now. You move just enough to lean awkwardly against the wall, staring out at your room for a while.

You've left your computer open, your friends are likely getting annoyed that you're leaving them on "read," and the battery life on the thing isn't all that great. You'll probably need to charge it. Is your charger still working? You may have to pilfer Bro's if it isn't, which he won't be too happy about, but he's probably going to be drunk enough not to care soon. The blueish light streaming from the screen casts a glow on the ceiling above, the texture of the specked surface dramatically defined under the light. 

Your legs are beginning to burn like hell, and you realize that you've spent the last few minutes just staring at the ceiling, and you're not sure why. You're bleeding enough to have probably soaked your mattress as well as your sheets, and it's starting to look like you won't be sleeping here tonight. So you move, try to stop whatever drips you can from landing on your carpet as you make your way to the bathroom. It's weird, you observe, to not really feel the extent of the damage to your legs, but to feel their reluctance to move as your feet drag along the rough carpet. 

You let your legs carry you while they can, locking the door behind you when you reach the bathroom, chancing a glance at yourself in the mirror and fuck, holy shit you look kind of worse than awful. You're pretty sure you're going to have to use concealer on your face and neck for the next few days; you've got a bruise that's probably going to bleed into a fairly decent black eye, and your neck is riddled with teeth marks and hickeys that you don't even rememeber being made there. Your nostrils flare, and you can feel your jaw tighten, so you turn away from the mirror, unwilling to get emotional about this. 

Fuck.

Fuck, _fuck_ he came in you, fuck. Fuck, how are you supposed to deal with this? You've had your period before but you're only thirteen, can you still get pregnant? Probably, oh _fuck_. Your hands are suddenly shaking and you try to stop them but you think you're panicking again. You're frozen in place before you move to turn the shower on, stepping into the shower and standing an inch or so away from the spray and just sort of... oh god. You try to lean up against the shower wall, grimacing as your raw back touches the cold marble. Fuck fuck fuck, you spread your legs a bit and fuck you don't know what to do but you have to do _something_. So you reach your fingers up into yourself, trying to ease some of the cum out of your vagina. It bubbles out of you thick and sticky, and your salivary glands are working overtime all of a sudden, you think you're going to puke.

You manage to wait until after you're finished scooping jizz out of yourself to vomit, retching over the drain even after your stomach runs empty. The convulsing of your muscles is painful, especially when paired with the ache and sting and burn of the rest of your frame. Your eyes are hot with tears, and you try to keep yourself quiet, you don't want Bro to hear and think that you're not able to handle this shit. 

You grab the washcloth that's hung over the showerhead, swiping at your eyes quickly before wetting it and pressing it against one leg. Your shock has mostly faded at this point, and you're left with injuries that you're worried could possibly be life threatening and you're terrified, it takes everything in you to not scream as you apply pressure to your leg, trying to pat away the blood as gently as you can. Your arm has long since stopped bleeding, so you're not going to bother with it for the moment, though that's the injury that you're the most worried about. Your legs are bleeding a lot, sure, but it could be worse. You've always kind of been a huge pussy about cutting, which you're actually sort of grateful for right now.

Then again, if you'd cut deeper, maybe you'd have bled out by now. That might be better than whatever the fuck this shit is. You manage to clean out one leg, moving on to the next, which is significantly worse, but still not all that bad. You're lucky you don't need stitches, honestly, you have no clue how the hell you would do all of those on your own. You know that Bro wouldn't help you, not with self inflicted shit. It's your fault that your legs are fucked up, anyways, you were practically asking for him to rip them open again. 

It takes ages for your legs to stop bleeding under the water, and you think it probably would have been better to have staunched the bleeding outside of the shower, but whatever. You can do that for your arm. You coat your hair in shampoo in a moment of pseudo-normalcy, because you don't want to smell like your brother, don't want to be reminded of your brother. You work the soap through your hair before rinsing, maneuvering into awkward positions in an attempt to keep the shampoo out of your various cuts. 

When you're rinsed and dried, you spend probably far too long slapping bandaids over your legs, digging into your stash of Scooby Doo ones for the smaller cuts, and the heavy duty ones when needed. Your legs are probably cleaned enough, you'll likely be fine. You've never gotten an infection before, at least from self-administered shit, because you know you won't get babied for that, so you have to be careful. You realize too late that you didn't bring clothing with you, electing to wrap your probably bloody towel around your waist for now as you lean over the sink to look at your arm. You don't know if you can fully clean that without fainting from the sight of it or from more blood loss, but no way in hell are you asking your brother for help right now. 

It's sort of easy to just wipe the drying blood off of your shoulder and pour probably a quarter of the bottle of hydrogen peroxide over your arm. It hurts like hell, but you're used to it by now, making it through with just a grimace as the gash foams and fizzes. You're pretty sure there isn't any glass lodged in there, and even if there is you can't really do anything about it. You douse the gash in a few more splashes of disinfectant before wiping it off and staunching the bleeding that's started up again. This probably needs stitches or it's going to scar up badly, but fuck it.

You're pretty lucky that Bro keeps an entire fucking hospital's worth of first-aid in the house in case of strifing injuries. You wrap your upper arm in gauze, before covering the material with an an ace bandage, clipping it neatly in place. There, great, everything looked much less... scary. You still refuse to make eye contact with yourself in the mirror, hastily shoving things away and moving quietly back to your room, locking the door and tossing on a shirt before hefting your laptop and charger into your closet, moving some of your photography shit to the side. You close the door, curling into the ratty comforter you keep back here just in case. You like it because it smells like you, and Bro never touches it, and you feel stupidly better wrapped up in a blanket. You plug your laptop into the charger, sticking the end into the power outlet and reopening the device, reading over the messages you missed and managing to type out a believable enough excuse for disappearing.

You hear a noise from somewhere else in the house, and it fills you with unease, so you plug in your headphones and listen to your own mixes, relaxing into the corner and setting your laptop beside you. Your ribs are killing you, and you know that you won't be able to wear a binder for the next few days at least, though you also know you should honestly be waiting months for rib injuries to heal. But hey, when have you ever been safe about anything? 

You probably wound your arm bandaging a bit too tight, you realize, feeling the mildly diminished circulation in your arm. John's messaging you back, and so is Rose, but you're pretty sure Jade is either sleeping or doing something pertinent to her survival. Your twin is trying to be nosy as per usual, but you shut her down immediately, giving her several obvious clues that you really don't want to talk about it. She'll be worried, sure, but you'd rather have her worried about you than shunning you. Your friends can't know the shit you're reduced to doing, they'd either try to do something stupid that would only get you into further trouble, or be disgusted by what a whore you are.

You endure a few more significantly less probing and more concerned questions from Rose, and some dumb conversation with John before you feel too horrible to keep the chat windows open any longer. You're covered in cuts and bruises, signs of a badly lost fight, catalogues of your fuck-ups. You shouldn't be talking to them, they're all perfect in comparison. You sigh shakily, curling around yourself and staring into the cold darkness of your closet, listening to the faint hum of your computer and the gentle audio coming through your headphones. You gladly let the music wash over you, the familiarity of the tune and the predictable, stable beat lulling you into a surprisingly peaceful slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> The ending may seem a bit abrupt, apologies if that irks you, but I will be continuing this plotline as a series. I hope that you got something out of reading this, and will continue to follow the story as it progresses.


End file.
